Not dead then?
by Shenhav
Summary: Post Reichenbach - Sherlock is trying to take down Moriarty's web when he gets captured by the man himself.
1. Chapter 1

It's all clear now. Sherlock thought to himself while lying on that hard surface which was supposed to be his bed.  
At first it was frightening. Not having control on his thoughts or body. Those strange feelings that he could not describe, some sort of hate, sadness, even grief, anger but mostly shame.  
As he woke up like that for the first time, all sweaty, confused and shaking, he didn't understand what his body and feelings were doing. But now it became an everyday thing to him. Finally he could understand John.

John. Sherlock wondered about him a lot these days. Hoped he was happy and safe and that maybe, somehow, he moved on. It was all he wanted for him and that's why he had no choice. Sometimes, he could sneak out of the guards' sight and get a tiny glimpse at the place that used to be his home, their home. And in some very rare occasions a blond haired little tough looking man with kind eyes and a painful smile got out of that old fashioned, brown, long door with the same old golden 221B nailed onto it. John looked happy while talking to the kind, old landlady Mrs. Hudson, the surprisingly friendly DI Lestrade or with someone on the phone. But if he was alone, that kind face Sherlock learned to know and even love wore an expression of deep grief and sadness, that made his insides twist and the air stuck in his throat. How could he do that to this warm, loving and caring little man? He knew that if someone else would look at John they won't notice the sadness, only Sherlock knew his face good enough and that made the guilt even worse. The idea of John keeping it to himself and not getting comfort or help from anyone. That dreadful therapist doesn't count. Anderson is a better therapist than she is. He wanted to run and hug him, tell him that it's all good and that he is alive but he couldn't. He couldn't forgive himself for making John feel that way but he won't be able to live knowing that the cause to John's death was him.

A heavy knock on the iron door, brought him back to the small, dark and sultry cell. Back to where he had no chance of getting even a glimpse at John and because of which he probably never will. Why did he HAVE to get clever? Why couldn't he fight his urges, two years ago at that shack?  
Curse that shack and that bloody case!  
Why couldn't he just follow the plan?  
He lay there on that little piece of wood in that tiny cell and ran the events of the last three years over and over in his mind, trying to find a solution or a clue that may lead him to freedom, to John. Back home where they're both safe.

It has all started there, three years ago. Moriarty was too obsessed with him and he had to get him off his back and stay alive. Moriarty's plans were too oblivious so he did what had to be done. He tried to make John hate him, by telling him that he was a fake and that everything was a lie but John is too smart and too loyal for that to work. He should have known that. It was painful, standing there in the graveyard, watching John crying over him but at least he owed him that.  
Then he left, ran away. He couldn't delay and so he met Mycroft in that alley, took the fake ID's and went into hiding. It was almost over 6 months when he first saw sunlight again. He checked the papers on a daily basis and when he was sure that it has been long enough and that people had already forgotten him, he left the country. He has been moving from one country to another, from village to village, usually stayed in old abandoned farm houses and shacks in the distant villages where no nosey and well updated people could see him and maybe recognize him.  
And that was the way he has been living for almost a year. With the loneliness he could deal but the boredom drove him mad! He kept looking for distractions, so he followed the animals in the wood, doing some sort of research on their behavior and soon he was out of things to do. So no one can blame him that as he heard about that he had to go. But he knew that it wasn't true, that it was entirely his fault.

He could have stayed in that shack and do nothing but he HAD to do that. He couldn't resist it and that deed caused many deaths and the number just keeps growing.  
There had been a murder in the village nearby. He thought that it couldn't go wrong, those people has never heard of him anyway and it had been a year so Moriarty must have quit looking already.  
Those were all excuses of course. And even if he tried to deny it he knew that Moriarty will never quit looking, he's bored and obsessed. Too obsessed.  
But his boredom out forced his logic and despite all he had planned he went out investigating. The case was really easy. Thinking about it now it was nearly worth it.

It was already solved before sunset and Sherlock, disappointed, headed back to his shack, muttering to himself about how it was a waste of time when suddenly he noticed something. Something that wasn't there before. A wired, cigars-like smell. But he wasn't smoking, and there was no one else living close enough for the smell to reach that spot. He looked down on the ground and saw some ash. He smelled it. It was as expensive kind, but not the kind Mycroft smokes. He looked around him and that was when he noticed them.

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	2. Chapter 2

Hundreds of footsteps coming from his shack and towards it. He must have missed them while being lost in his thoughts. He was there. He knew that now. Moriarty has found him and he was not alone. There was no point in running away from Moriarty having his people surrounding him. Slowly he paced towards the shack's door. Every breath tearing his lungs, every heartbeat pounding in his ears as if his heart was trying to drive him out of it, to make him turn around and even though that it was a long shot to try and escape but he knew his chances and was too proud for allowing Moriarty see that he is frightened or being carried into the cabin like a pig for slaughter.  
So he just kept walking and slowly he reached the door. His heart now racing. It was slightly open and that was the moment he knew he was right. He took a deep breath, pulled himself together and after a slight moment of hesitation he pushed it gently. It opened.  
He walked in, scanning it with his eyes. It seemed empty but a weak squeaking noise from the kitchen's door gave away that it wasn't.  
The door opened and a thin, short, blacked haired figure appeared in front of him.

"Not dead then?" the strident voice said. He looked just as Sherlock remembered him. "I can ask you the same question." Sherlock replied in a calm and even sarcastic voice even though he was really scared to death. "Yes, I assume you can." he took an apple from the table and started eating it. "It's been a long journey, you don't mind do you?!" a rhetorical question of course. "Ho and I hope you also wouldn't mind that I took this" he took a mobile phone out of his pocket and tossed it to Sherlock who caught it moving only his hand. "I thought you'd want that back" he said and as if it was some sort of a personal joke he started laughing "you really thought that I wouldn't find it before John?! There was a bigger chance for him to get that message if you had sent it or left the phone on the body! Did you really think that he will notice that there was no phone on the body?"

How the hell did Moriarty get his phone? But after a second he remembered. He had this idea, at the day of the fall, he knew that John had to be convincing while being watched by the snipers so they won't kill him or any of the others but even though Sherlock knew it was a bad idea he thought that maybe after convincing the snipers that he was indeed dead there would be no harm in telling John the truth. Of course he couldn't do it himself or sending any of the people who helped him because he still needed their help. He couldn't risk that in case Moriarty was still watching.  
So he had a brilliant idea, probably the stupidest idea he ever had. Before going on the roof he wrote a text message on his phone for John but didn't send it. After talking to John he visibly dropped the phone there so maybe, John will see it falling and will go to pick it up as some sort of sentimental memorial or something and will see the text message.

"It was really moving," Moriarty's high voice brought his mind back to the shack where they were both standing. "That message you wrote." He smiled at him. His humorless smile stopped Sherlock's breath for a moment. "Dear John," he started quoting, the fact that he knew the message by heart was creepy, frightening and a bit ironic at the same time and he wondered where he was going with that. He did have an idea but this time he really wanted to be wrong.  
"If you're reading this, my plan has succeeded. I'm sorry about the pain I've caused you or any other bad feeling but I had no choice. I'm not dead and one day I will be back. Don't worry about me and under any circumstances, don't ever try to find me.  
I hope you'll find the strength to forgive me, I am terribly sorry. SH"  
The humorless smile was replaced by an even more humorless, cold, shrill laughter that pounded in his ears and dried his throat. "And I thought that you'll be smarter than that." He said as if he was disappointed in him. "But there's one thing that still bothers me..." Sherlock knew what was coming and started to fear that he was actually right.

"How did you do it? What did I miss?" he smiled. For the first time since he walked through that door he knew something that Moriarty didn't. He gathered the little amount of confidence he got left and said "And just why do you think I'm going to tell you?" Moriarty smiled. "If you had, I'd be really disappointed."  
Moriarty seemed weirdly pleased with himself and remained silent, Sherlock was anxious to hear the rest of the sentence, his hands started to shiver a bit, not enough for Moriarty to see but enough for Sherlock to lose his calm impression. "Well then," Moriarty continued and as he did Sherlock's breath became faster. "You can keep that to yourself." This came as a total surprise to him. He was sure that, being as obsessed as he is, Moriarty won't let go until he knows the answer. "I'm sorry, what?" he didn't even control it, the words just slipped out. "You will tell me, eventually. So there's no need to rush it, is there?!" He didn't like the sound of it. Eventually meant that they're going to spend some time together and Sherlock didn't like the idea. "Well it was a nice chat but it's business time now." It was getting even worse, the look on Moriarty's face gave away that it's not going to be a pleasant deal. Sherlock wasn't a fan of the idea and suddenly running away seemed like the best solution.

The fact that Moriarty was busy being pleased with himself made Sherlock think that he wasn't concentrating on him. So he, slowly, started to move backwards which was, obviously, a grave mistake.

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	3. Chapter 3

Moriarty may have been distracted, but he had no reason to be worried about Sherlock running away. Because a few other people were watching too. As soon as he reached the door, ready to run for it, it opened and he was hit on his head.  
"You really thought you could escape?" His head was pounding. He felt that he's being hold by two men, each holding one hand and they both pushed him down on his knees. The whole room was blurred. Moriarty looked like a long black spot now, growing bigger as he got closer to him.

"Dear Sherlock. Dear, ordinary Sherlock." He was now shivering quite visibly. His eyes wet and his throat dry. His heart beating fast, ready to stop any moment now. "What would I do with you?" even without seeing him clearly Sherlock knew what expression Moriarty's face had now. "Well, I already know. Did you figure that out already?" of course he didn't. He was too busy being frightened "Kill me?" his voice was cracked and shivery as if he hasn't been using it for weeks. He saw Moriarty's smile even through the veil of both tears and sweat and even though his sight was still unclear. His cold, mad smile seep to his bones and made his whole body shiver.

"Nah." He said. His voice flat and calm. "I thought that we've already been through that conversation. No! I'm going to do something even better. You're going to be impressed and to wish that you have committed suicide that day." His tone became angrier and his face were now so close to Sherlock's and he could feel his cold breath on his skin and his insane eyes scanning his face. "You are going to do something for me. Well few things actually." Sherlock knew what the rest of it is going to be and just hoped that Moriarty won't say it. "You already know what I'm going to say don't you?!" Sherlock remained motionless and silent. John's face appeared in his mind. He knew what was coming and so, against his will, a tear appeared on his cheek.

"I told you that you do have a heart. What a shame." He sighed. "We could have ruled the world together if you weren't so vulnerable. It seems as if I have to make you do those things for me and, actually, I've never expected you to volunteer."  
Sherlock took a deep breath, prepared himself to the worst. "Even though you already know I'll tell you the deal. You help me and in exchange John stays alive." That was obvious but was also Sherlock's greatest fear since he knew that now no matter what Moriarty wants him to do he'll have to obey. "Fair play" he muttered to himself. "Isn't it?!" another rhetorical question, Moriarty absolutely loved those.

"Well, John is still alive so now it's your turn to do your part of the deal." One of the men covered his eyes with a piece of fabric and together they lifted him to his feet and pulled him aggressively out of the shack. He tried to break free from their hands but was too scared to actually concentrate and failed to do so. They pushed him into a car. Judging by its size it was some sort of a cab and judging by its smell it was new. They were really quiet. Sherlock thought that Moriarty must have told them to remain silent so Sherlock wouldn't find out about anything. The car kept on going and the silence was even scarier than anything Moriarty could say. The uncertainty and the helplessness of his condition disgusted him. How could he possibly let him-self get into it? But the answer was obvious of course. Sentiment. Care. He should have listened to Mycroft back there in St. Bart's, "Care isn't an advantage Sherlock" he said. He should have learned from Irene's mistakes and never let sentiment apply his logic. But it was too late now. John was in danger because of him and he was a better man than anyone Sherlock has ever known. He saw Sherlock for who he was inside and didn't push him away even if he was annoying or sarcastic and even if he accidently hurt him. John would never have done that and he was too kind for Sherlock to give up on him, to let Moriarty take his life. There was no way he was going to let that happen. No one will ever hurt John as long as it's up to him. But now it was too late for that. He should have thought of John before going on investigating. He should have known the consequences to his deeds.

The car stopped and brought him back to reality. As they got out of the car one of the men hit him hard on his neck. All the sounds were now vague and all he could think of was the pain. And like that, slowly the men led him through some sort of a hallway. The silence was replaced by the fuzzy sound of their steps and his loud heart beats.  
He couldn't tell how long it has been before they stopped walking but it has been awhile.  
The man to his left moved a bit forward, still holding his arm. As if from a great distance, he heard a weak sound of iron scratching asphalt and the next thing he knew the men threw him on the floor. Instinctively his hands flew before him and blocked the fall. The gate closed behind him in a faint clicking sound and as it did, Sherlock, his hands now free, ripped of the fabric from his eyes. He expected to be in some sort of a dungeon, surrounded by corpses. Moriarty was really dramatic so less than that would be disappointing. But what he saw was nothing like that. It was a small windowless room. The walls were painted with gray and the only entrance was the tiny iron gate. It was stuffy, he felt his lungs shrinking and the dusty air slowly scratching his throat, trying to find its way in. It was dark and cold. The only source of light was a single old lamp hanging down from the ceiling. He set on the floor, at the middle of the room, hid his face in his bent knees and thought of John. How could he let that happen? How could he be SO stupid?! What the hell is he going to do now? There was no way out, no one knew where he was or that he was even gone.

John was innocent. He did nothing wrong and has never hurt anyone. He's so loving and caring and is probably the best man Sherlock has ever known but now his life is in danger and it was just because of him. Just because of his stupid boredom and his bloody urges! suddenly he realized that he was now standing. His hands pressed hard into the surface of the little table in the corner of the room, his head down and his eyes wet and swollen. He was breathing heavily holding back his tears pressing his lips together trying not to cry. The shame and guilt, the uncertainty and helplessness, the boredom and the longing to John all raged in his mind and so it became harder to hold his tears, his eyes were now burning with pain and his lips trembled violently. He pushed his lips into his shoulder in a feeble attempt to make it stop but the emotions just were too much for him to handle and for the first time in years a single tear of actual pain ran down his cheek. This one treacherous tear, sliding there, he shouldn't cry. He never cries. Just like Mycroft said that day all those years ago "Crying is just for babies. Sentimental people get hurt. Don't pay attention to them their stupid." and so was that tear, bloody stupid! but the tear broke the dam and was followed by many others. They just kept on flowing down his cheeks and soon were accompanied by voice. Cracked deep and ongoing, the crying seemed to last forever and Sherlock just couldn't stop. It got louder and louder and heavier to bear so he just put his elbows on the table and held his face in his hands. Weak. He thought to himself. You are weak! Moriarty was right and now John stands no chance. What could he do?

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	4. Chapter 4

There was no sense of time in that cell. It could have been days or even years before he stopped crying. At least it felt that way. His eyes were heavy, his head pounding, his throat dry and burning. His guts twisting and his face all wet. All he wanted to do was dying. But he couldn't. If he dies John will too.

For a long while nothing happened. No one came and no noise was made. The only sounds were his heartbeats' and deep breaths'. The boredom was no longer an issue when being under such stress and fear. He spent the days lying on the bed, thirsty and starving, imagining that John was there next to him and just talking to him. That wasn't so hard to do considering that he used to do that back in 221B baker street. John could leave the flat and he wouldn't notice and just keep talking for hours to an empty chair. That one made him smile. Thinking of John trying to talk to an empty chair made that little smile disappear. And again he was drowning in sadness and terror, thinking that he'll never see John again, that he will get him killed.

Those weird feelings, all those sudden rage attacks and sudden outbursts of crying were new to him. Looking back at it now, that was indeed interesting. He had never had those before. But back then it has frightened him. All his emotions were like a big activate volcano, bursting without a warning, destroying everything, slowly crumbling his soul and then disappear at the same suddenness they came. The lack of food and water made it all worse. Moriarty did give him food. If you can call that thick, sickening soup food. But Sherlock didn't eat that. Not because of the fact that it looked absolutely disgusting. He wasn't like that. But because he was afraid it might be poisoned. Not by Moriarty of course, he wanted Sherlock alive, but by one of his men or someone else who wanted revenge or wanted him to fail. Sherlock couldn't blame them of course If it was just his life there he would eat this poisoned food gladly but John's life was at stake and he couldn't let that happen. For the first few days he didn't eat or drink a thing. At the beginning it was easy. He didn't feel the difference since he was used to not eating for days. John always said it was a bad habit, and soon Sherlock understood why.

At first it wasn't a big deal. He felt as good as he possibly could be feeling in that dreadful hole but after a week the hunger started affecting him. His head was aching, his stomach was too. It was aching, twisting and making those weird and painful noises. But John was more important and so he didn't give up. The thirst was effecting too. His throat and mouth have dried and his lips were crocked. Soon he became weak and in few days he couldn't even stand up anymore. It was surprising that Moriarty didn't do anything. He needed him for something and he was dying. Actually he would have loved to just let go and then all the pain will be over but John kept him alive. He spent most of the day sleeping or hallucinating. His temperature was rising and therefore it wasn't nice.

Those illusions were so real and vivid he could smell John's jumpers and feel his hand holding his own while the other hand is stroking his hair. He closed his eyes, holding to that feeling, doesn't want to let go. His pain has faded and everything he could now feel is John's warm hand on his forehead and even though his eyes were close he could tell that he now had this comforting smile and for a split second it seemed as if everything is going to be okay now. All of a sudden this feeling disappeared and all he had now was the pain. He was too weak to move and his eyes were too heavy to open so he just kept them closed.

It was so quiet. His heart was beating loudly and he could feel it beat in his head. Abruptly his heart started beating faster and faster. His breathing became quicker and he just couldn't control it. John was there. He was trying to calm him down but Sherlock couldn't stop his throat dry and the air squeezing its way through it felt as if there were millions of knifes, violently cutting their way out. He tried to stand but couldn't. His breaths getting faster and his body moves, uncontrollable, while he was lying there. This is it. He thought to himself. That's the end. Not only his but also John's. For what seemed like the last time he opened his eyes and John was standing there again. His eyes red and wet and the same, old, familiar comforting smile was there too.

Sherlock tried to hold on to his life to not give up on John's and he begged him to come and help him. To put his hand on his forehead again. To make the shivering stop but he just stood there. Watched as his friend slowly stopped breathing and how those magical blue eyes lost their expression and became vacant.

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	5. Chapter 5

Was that it? Is he dead now? There was nothing. No John, no nothing. He always knew that the heaven concept was wrong but now he couldn't prove that, what a waste.

"What the hell is going on here?" Moriarty's strident scream penetrated even through the veils of death and so Sherlock, somehow, woke up. "Give him some water you idiots!", he yelled at them "I said alive!" Sherlock didn't know if he should be happy that Moriarty has found him but now John will stay alive and that was enough for him to be thrilled. He was given water and slowly started to feel a lot better and so he fell asleep.

Suddenly, out of the blackness of sleeping, he opened his eyes and was lying on the sofa in his home, at 221B Baker Street. "Good morning sleepy" John put the newspaper back on the coffee table next to which he was sitting. "Did you sleep well?" Sherlock didn't know what to think. He knew it wasn't real but it looked so real and smelled real, felt real and the tea John gave him even tasted real and was also so hot that it had really, and quite painfully, burnt his tongue. "Are you alright?" John asked because Sherlock was now rubbing it while staring at the wall. He looked warm and loving and his smile warm though a bit cynical just like Sherlock remembered it.

"I was dead" he said and then felt really dumb. "You were dreaming Sherlock! And it's all fine now. I promise." Sherlock looked at him. "But you can't promise that. It's a dream." he said "I'm dreaming now." John looked very alarmed by that answer. "What do you mean dreaming?" he asked "you're awake now how can you be dreaming?" Sherlock looked at him. For a slight moment he wanted to believe John and say that this was the real world but he knew better than that. "I'm not here now." he said. "I might never be in Baker Street again. Might never see you again." John's face became more serious. "Sherlock are you alright? What are you talking about?"

"But it's the truth" he said firmly. "In the real world you're sure that I've killed myself and that I'm dead." John smiled at him and Sherlock couldn't understand why. "We've already been through that." "What?" he was not expecting that. What does he mean by that? Could all what he has been through in the last two years be a dream? And if it was, how come he can't remember any of what happened in the real world?  
But no. That was a proof that this was the dream. How can one forget two years of his life?

"Sherlock!" John's voice brought him back to the present. "Sherlock, you came back last year." Sherlock looked at him vacantly. "You're creeping me out" John said. "What's wrong?" But he couldn't be. "It's a dream John. It is. Your life is now at stake and if I won't do what I'm told you'll be dead without even knowing why!" John now looked scared more than Sherlock has ever made him be. His wondering eyes fixed on Sherlock's, trying to understand what's going on in this weird head.  
"John. John! Listen to me!" he was now scared himself. Not knowing was his greatest fear. "This is a dream! I was there and I was dying. You were there too." John now was as scared as him. "But you said I didn't know you were alive." "Well, not really there, you were an illusion and I wanted you to help me but you didn't. You just stood there and looked at me." John was now more sad then scared. "And then I died. But I didn't I was still alive, though just a little bit and Moriarty found me on time, and" "Moriarty?" John voice was now firm. "But he killed himself. On the roof of St. Barts. He died Sherlock! It can't be." Sherlock was now laughing. It was definitely the dream. Moriarty is very much alive. Or is he? He didn't know what was real anymore. But if he could choose, this reality was better. It was with John. But no. It was too real there, in that cell, for a dream. Far too real.

"Sherlock, come here." John stood up and so did Sherlock and then, without a warning, he hugged him. Well that one was definitely the dream now. John has never hugged him. Actually no one did. But this hug was so real, loving and warm and Sherlock just wanted it to last forever even if that meant staying asleep for all eternity.

It was silent. John just hugged him and didn't say a word. Sherlock liked that. He hugged John so hard so he wouldn't suddenly fade away. As he thought of that possibility the room around them started crumbling and slowly the walls disappeared.  
Then a violent, strong wind started pulling the furniture. The sofa was the first to go, then the table and the skull and slowly the whole room was gone. Sherlock was now holding John as hard as he could. The wind blew his hair and its cold violent touch burnt his skin but he didn't let go of John. Whose head was now stuffed deep in Sherlock's chest. The floor was then gone too and now it was just them and the wind. It pushed his legs backwards and John's too. It was too strong and torn John from him. He was now flying in front of him. Scared. Holding his hand. Another strong burst of wind and John was gone. "John!" Sherlock was flying backwards, fast, as if something was pulling him. "John! JOHN! John..." there wasn't a sound. John couldn't hear him. He never did. It was all a dream.

But why didn't he wake up?

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	6. Chapter 6

It was just him and the wind now. It pulled him violently backward into the black infinity and he couldn't fight it. His eyes were trying hard to open and his hands were trying to find something to grab but this wind was stronger than everything. Nothing survived it. It seemed as if it lasted forever, being pulled into the darkness. Away from life, away from John. It just didn't stop until, at once it did. It was very sudden. The wind was gone and he was just floating in the air. Nothing happened.  
He was alone. Or was he?

SLAP.

His eyes opened and his cheek was burning. He was there in the cell again. He knew that John was the dream! But he didn't want it to be. John didn't know where he was. No one did. He was lying there. Staring at the blank ceiling. He felt much better now. His head still hurt but he could feel the water going through his veins again. It was such a nice feeling. Like a river, flowing slowly between the trees. Calm and refreshing, like walking barefoot on the cool ground while listening to the sounds of the nature and smelling its unique smells.  
Slowly he recovered. After a week he could stand again. The colour returned to his face and the air did no longer scratch his lungs. It was better this way. He was pacing a lot. Thinking about life, ways to escape. About John. Every night he set on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall in front of him, picturing John and just told him everything he could think of. Sometimes it was about the disgusting soup, the wired stupid guard that made sure he was eating, the boredom and sometimes the longing.

Every day was the same as the last. Waking up, eating and drinking while the stupid guard was watching, then being alone, talking to the walls and go back to bed. Until one day this routine was broken.

This day had started just like all his predecessors. He woke up and ate his brunch, or whatever this meal was named. Then it was his time to be alone. To see John. He set down on his bed, stared at the wall and after a while, John appeared in front of him. "How are you doing?" he asked John who didn't respond. "I'm fine. I'm feeling much better now. This guard is so stupid. I see why Moriarty doesn't let him hold the keys while he's in the room, making me eat. I could have ran away long ago. It would have been easier to pickpocket him than Lestrade." he laughed from that and so did John. "I wanted to tell you something." he said. "I'm-" he was interrupted by the raspy voice of the gate that opened brutally and violently hit the wall in a loud, ear busting sound. Two big guards ran towards him and one of them hit him in the neck so hard that he lost consciousness.

He knew it was just a matter of time before something will happen but he still hoped that Moriarty has forgotten him and that this routine will last forever. Well, until he finds a way to escape and find John. But it didn't.

It was dark again. No sound was in the darkness. No smell, nothing. But then there was something. A light. And it grew bigger and bigger ate the darkness and the blackness has slowly crumbled. Sherlock watched at it as it covered him slowly. Soft and cozy, like a cloud it made his whole body disappear. Then he was back. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

The whole room was fuzzy. His eyelids were still heavy and therefore it has been almost five minutes before he has successfully opened his eyes. "Did you sleep well?" rhetorical question. Again. He really hoped for a second that John will be there when he'll wake up. "Amazing." he answered sarcastically. "Well I see you got your humor back." he smiled cynically. "Okay then, the sleeping beauty, We have some work to do." Yes, the deal. He had already forgotten about that. "What do you want?" He just wanted it to be over already.

"Well. Down to business." Sherlock wasn't focused. What could that possibly be? Moriarty looked incredibly happy so it couldn't be good. "You are familiar with my work." Sherlock was now more serious than he had ever been. "Well. From now on, you will be working for me." He was afraid of that. Of course he now has no choice. "What will I be doing?" Moriarty smiled. That meant that he wouldn't be the housekeeper.  
"I have a great job for you." Sherlock was anxious to hear the rest. "Remember that I don't get my hands dirty?!" It hit him. But Moriarty still felt an urge to say it out loud. "Nobody said you don't."

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	7. Chapter 7

That was it then. The deal. "You know the rules. One mention of my name, you both dead. One description of anything that could, somehow, give even a slight clue that I am connected to that, dead. If you get yourself, magically, killed, run away or contact anyone other than those you've been told to contact with. John is dead. Is that clear?" He didn't even wait for an answer. "Well then. Follow me." Sherlock stayed sited and the two men grabbed his arms and forced him to walk.

They walked through a narrow corridor. Moriarty at the front and behind him Sherlock who had some difficulties breathing, being squeezed between the two big men. It wasn't a long while before the corridor ended and a sudden burst of blur sun light caressed his face. He hadn't seen or felt the sunlight for a very long time and its warmness and comforting touch made him feel much better but as he saw the rest of the room that feeling disappeared.

"Welcome to my secret base!" Moriarty seemed proud of himself and frankly, who wouldn't? It looked like a huge room at a palace. The ceiling was made of different coloured pieces of glass and the blur light of the sun came through them, creating some sort of a mysterious atmosphere. The walls were decorated with all kinds of arts. There were beautiful paintings hanging on them and all sorts of special cravings. There was one area that immediately caught Sherlock's attention. On that part of the wall there were cravings of angels and demons and the situation that they described was quite similar to his meeting with Moriarty on the roof. In that enormous room were working hundreds of people. Each of them had their own desk. It was separated in the middle by two long and big curtains. On each desk there was a computer and a phone. Few of them were walking between the tables, giving and taking papers. No one got out of their seat they all set there in a complete silence like robots. No one was talking unless they were answering the phone.

They started walking between the curtains. They were a bit transparent. "This is where the magic happens" Moriarty said looking at Sherlock. "This section" he pointed at the tables to his left "is the place where all the people who wants to hire our services call. Then they put all that information on the computers and it goes to this section" he pointed at the tables to his right "their job is to book all the murders so no one will ever sense the pattern."  
It was a well-planned organization but Sherlock couldn't help thinking that using the phone is quite stupid. Even the police's most idiot detectives will someday notice that many of the killers they've caught through the years called the same number on the few weeks or month close to the murder. "Don't be silly" Moriarty said as if he was able to read his mind "It is never the same number and also, we never answer in a formal way. Do you think I'm an idiot?" It seemed as if he got hurt by Sherlock's stupid assumption.

As they walked by, every person in the room eyed Sherlock. Well, it was more of a glimpse. They all seemed so alarmed. They must have thought that he was dead. It was quite amusing actually, all those frightened expressions. He wondered how John would react when he sees that he's not dead. Actually "if he ever sees" is a more realistic way to put it. They led him to a big, gray door at the end of the room. It was so different from the rest of the hall. It was quite ordinary and colourless. He looked back at the room. Many people were now looking at him. They looked more worried than surprised. He turned his head back on them and was now facing the door.

Moriarty stood beside it, smiling "And this is" he said "your office". His office? Maybe Moriarty was smarter then he thought and knew exactly what was going to happen or maybe he had too much self-confidence. The second one seemed more reasonable. The door looked quite old, 5 years old at least. How long was Moriarty planning their cooperation? Or was that room destined for something else?

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	8. Chapter 8

Not. It wasn't. The men let go of him but still stood too close for him to try and run. He approached it and touched the door gently with the tips of his figures. Then he felt something, like an engraving. He looked more closely and saw his name engraved in what was probably Moriarty's hand writing into the iron. "I put some work into it you know…" Moriarty said, looking pleased with Sherlock's obvious appreciation look. "People didn't have interesting requests back then so I had to do something with my time."

Sherlock took a quick glimpse at the bored psychopath standing next to him and all at once opened the door. He glanced at the worried workers one last time before walking in, trying to understand the meaning of their fear. But he couldn't seem to realize. He paced slowly into the room. Holding his hands behind his back. He stood at the middle of it and looked around.

It was very little and the ceiling was low, about 30 centimeters above his head. The walls were painted with pale grayish blue that reminded him much of the pale gray his cell was painted in. There were no windows and the room was lighten by a single old lamp hanging from the ceiling. He was now facing the door that has just been closed by Moriarty after he and the two men walked in. On his left he saw a little wooden table that was attached to the wall. On that table he saw an old computer screen and an old keyboard, both covered in dust. Next to the table was a chair and the rest of the room was empty.

Slowly he approached it cleaning the dust with his finger. "It was closed for years now… You can clean it if you'd like." Sherlock didn't even turn around to face him. He set on the chair and stared into the empty black screen. "Is that it?" he asked. "Instead of engraving my name into the door you could make that room look much better." He smiled coldly and Moriarty looked at him. "Well?" Sherlock continued, he just wanted it to be over. Moriarty didn't even move, neither did Sherlock. They were both staring at each other when suddenly the screen turned on and a picture of a little shopping center appeared. Well, he thought it was a picture but then he noticed movements.

It was a security camera video. Immediately he understood what was going to happen next. Moriarty knew he did. "Well, go on." He said. "Go ahead, blow it up." He looked at the screen and then back at Sherlock "Why would you like to blow this dreadful place up?" Sherlock asked. He didn't want to do it but knew what will be the consequences if he won't. "No reason." Moriarty replayed "Just for fun." He looked at Sherlock impatiently. "How?" "You know how." he said, his eyes longing for blood. Of course he knew how. It was easy but there were people in there. Sentiment. He should really stop doing that. It was John or them. He had no choice but of course it wasn't true. If it was for John he would tell Sherlock to spare them but he couldn't let him die.

Moriarty started to lose the little amount of patient he got left. And all of a sudden he did. He pushed Sherlock out of the chair, pushed few buttons and in a blink of an eye the building was replaced by a huge ball of fire."What a shame" he said "they had great pizza".

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	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock looked at the little screen and then at Moriarty who looked back at him. Why did Moriarty blew this place up instead of him? That didn't make any sense. Does that mean that John is doomed? Or is he already dead? He turned his head back to the screen where the giant ball of fire and blood was, hoping to see some survivors. Sentiment. He's got to stop doing that. This is why he got into this situation at the first place and this is not going to  
help him to get out of it.

"Relax" said Moriarty sounding a bit disappointed, "He's not dead. Your deduction skills must be getting rusty" He now looked at him. He started to wonder if he could actually read minds but of course it's impossible. "Rusty?" he's not 'rusty'. "What is there to deduct?" He asked his temper rising but his face remain straight. "If I wanted you or John dead, you would have been killed long ago." Sherlock still was a bit confused. "So?" he asked. "So" Moriarty replayed "I still need you! Isn't that obvious?!" Obvious? no. Nothing about his situation was obvious. Moriarty looked away from Sherlock, disappointed. Sherlock looked back at the screen, and as he did, the flames disappeared and a new building appeared instead.

It was a school. Hundreds of kids were running all over the great yard. It was a primary school then. They were laughing and playing games. "You know what to do." Moriarty said flatly but his maniac eyes wore an expression of pure excitement.  
They looked so happy and they were so young. Sentiment? again? If he wasn't so weak at the first time, they wouldn't have to die. They were just children but they were also doomed. Moriarty will kill them anyway so if he wants to save lives he has to take theirs, he had no choice. John will never forgive him for doing that. All he had to do was pushing few buttons and then it'll be over. "Well?" Moriarty started to get impatient again. He started taping on the table with his fingers, his eyes fixed on the screen. Sherlock looked at him and then back at the screen. He succeeded to keep his expression as flat and emotionless as always but his mind was racing. He didn't know what to do.

"What the hell are you waiting for?" Moriarty screamed at his face all of a sudden. Their faces were now so close to each other that Sherlock could feel Moriarty's breath on his skin. They were staring at each other for a minute "You are so predictable" Moriarty said and turned around in order to blow the school up. Without thinking it through Sherlock pushed him away and grabbed the key board. His head focused on the goal. A huge ball of fire appeared instead of the school that was standing there a few seconds earlier and Sherlock couldn't move. His eyes opened wide. He didn't know what had gotten into him. He's not a murderer. Well now he is. He looked at the flames.

They were dancing violently, red with blood. "Isn't that glorious?" Moriarty said staring at the screen. "That feeling" he continued "having someone's life in one's hands." Sherlock didn't know what to think. He was more than horrified by his deeds but Moriarty did have a point. This feelings and adrenaline were things he has never felt before and those flames on the screen became more and more fascinating. He explored every colour and every movement. The many shades of red, yellow and orange were all so beautifully mixed. once in a while you could spot some blue or purple. He kept watching it, entranced by its beauty, until the firefighters came and slowly, it died.

As it did, the fascination was gone with it and instead appeared shame. The same, guilt and grief grew bigger and bigger. He felt them cutting through his insides like a knife.  
He started to wonder if the excitement was worth it.  
He looked at the remains of what was a school just ten minutes ago. He watched as the firefighters started pulling bodies and body parts from under the ash, dirt and broken walls. He kept watching as parents started to arrive, devastated, crying for help and praying to see their children. It's stupid to do that though, he thought to himself. They are dead, they couldn't possibly survive the explosion.

"Are we having fun already?" Moriarty asked, amused by Sherlock's vacant expression. He tried to keep his face straight and cold but the guilt reflected in his eyes. "Oh yeah, I forgot" Moriarty said "Emotions." He looked at Sherlock "Don't worry it'll pass and you're going to have so much fun." He turned around and satisfied, he walked out of the door followed by the two guards who locked the it behind them. Sherlock was sitting in front of the screen, motionless. His mind blank but exploding at the same time. What's next? he thought to himself. Was that all he's going to do until he finds a way to escape? Blowing up stuff using this stupid computer?

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	10. Chapter 10

Abruptly, the door opened again and the two guards walked in, holding the bed from his cell. Moriarty walked in too as the two men placed it in the right corner of the tiny room. "Congratulations! This will be your cell for the next few days or weeks, I haven't decided yet," he glanced at Sherlock who did not look back. "Make yourself at home." He smiled coldly and strode out of the room followed by the men. All of a sudden the screen went all black again and the room was quiet. He stayed sited on the chair, didn't move and didn't say a thing.

The silence was there too. Stuck in mid air, like some sort of an invisible fog, slowly, sucking the air from the room. He sat there for awhile. It felt like an eternity. His head was vacant, no thought appeared and no idea came up. Just nothing. When suddenly, in a loud bang, the light was gone and he couldn't see a thing. Luckily the room was a small one so he could find his way to the little, hard surface.

He was laying on the bed, his head pressed into it. No pillow, no nothing. Just his skull against the wood and obviously, the wood was winning. He dropped his hands, each of them on one side of the bed, slightly touching the floor. He suddenly realized that he was still wearing his coat. He hasn't changed his clothes since he got there. He was too busy for that. But it was hot now. He tried to get up but couldn't move. His body felt as if it was nailed onto the bed and so he stayed still.

He remained motionless, staring at the ceiling, which he could not really see but knew was there. His eyes were too heavy for him to keep them opened and, slowly, he closed them. They hurt so much. He knew that they were red now. He could feel his heartbeats in his eyes, again and again and again and again. His heart just kept beating, and now it felt as if he had a clock stuck in his head. Ticking and ticking over and over again, getting louder and louder. His whole head was pounding now, he wanted to shut his ears or press his hand against his forehead but his hands were too heavy to lift. So he just closed his eyes harder, in a poor attempt to stop the ticking but it was useless.

He kept them closed and after awhile the darkness was replaced by a blur picture of something that looked like a garden. The blue sky mixed together with the green grass like some sort of a watercolour painting and in the middle of it was a big dark green and brown spot that looked like a tree. He started walking towards It and as he got closer it became clearer and clearer. It was then when he noticed a little blond man sitting below the huge oak, reading a large red book. The walking turned into running and, lightly, he was skipping through the endless grass field. The sun caresses his skin, warm like the touch of a hot cup of tea against the skin and as gentle as a feather.

He kept running and running, his feet moving too fast for him to stop. The blond man looked up, the sunlight flickered in his blue eyes and he smiled at him. Sherlock could barely stop when he reached the tree and so he sent his hands forward to stop the impact. He looked down at his feet. He was wearing sandals. That was when he noticed that his regular clothes were replaced by a pair of beige shorts and a black, short sleeved t-shirt. He looked up again. The other man was standing now in front of him. They both looked at each other "John?" he asked, breathing heavily, his voice was cracked but still understandable.

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	11. Chapter 11

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The man smiled again though this time it wasn't John's warm and loving smile but a cold and sarcastic one. "No." he said in a high, shrill voice. The sound of that voice made Sherlock stumble backwards a little. He pulled himself together and got closer to the man, in an attempt to realize what was wrong. His heart missed a beat when all of a sudden John's kind and loving face started to crumble and was soon replaced by the long pale face of the devil himself. Jim Moriarty was now standing in front of him. If he wasn't that frightened, the fact that Moriarty was still wearing John's jumper would have been funny. But the pure hate in that man's face was probably the most alarming thing Sherlock had ever witnessed.

"John?" Sherlock asked again, quietly. "John?" The other man imitated Sherlock's perplexed voice. "John is dead you idiot" he said calmly "well, he's not dead yet but he IS doomed" Sherlock was staring at him, still trying to understand what was going on. "John stands no chance." He continued "Do you know why?! Because you are WEAK" the calm voice was replaced by an angry one as he said that last word.

"You are SO WEAK!" All at once he started laughing, his laugh as insane as the man himself. Sherlock started running away from him as hard as he could. "You know it, don't you?" he heard the voice calling at him from the distance "You know that he stands no chance." The man, the tree, the grass and the sky disappeared but the laughter remained, echoing in his mind.

_I AM weak_

He thought to himself as the floor beneath his feet became white and four white walls burst out of the ground around him in a loud, earsplitting noise. They grew to a height of at least three meters before they stopped and a white triangle came out of each wall growing until all the four met and together created the ceiling. He kept running when the ground beneath him started shaking, and all of a sudden the floor before him disappeared and a school burst out of the remaining hole. He looked at it for a moment before the door opened and dozens of kids strode out running all over the place, playing. He knew he saw that place somewhere before but didn't know where.

He started walking towards it, in order to get in but he couldn't control his feet. He was indeed walking but not to the place where the old fashioned looking school stood. His feet kept walking even though he ordered them to stop and has he passed the school he turned around in an attempt to try and go back but his feet kept going on the other direction so he was now walking backwards, stretching his hands forward, trying to grab something but there was nothing there.

**I know that it's a short one (even for me) Im sorry, I've been quite busy, I promise that I'll upload more very soon :) enjoy.**


	12. Chapter 12

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His feet turned him on the spot and he was facing the other direction. He looked at his feet, trying to realize how to stop and then he noticed a large, red circle on the ground and he was walking right towards it. He tried to stop walking, he really did, but he just couldn't. He kept walking and the circle was now just one step away. All of a sudden he stopped. With a sigh of relief he tried to turn away but as he did his right foot lifted itself and stepped on the circle.

BANG

The deafening sound of the explosion released his feet. He turned around to see a huge ball of fire at the place where the school stood. The kids were screaming. A few of them were running towards him but were captured by the fire. A little brunette girl got to him and wrapped herself tightly around his right leg. She was scared and crying. He looked down at her, thunderstruck, suddenly she raised her head. "Help me." her eyes wet with tears and her forehead wet with sweat "Please". Sherlock didn't know what needed doing. The big ball of fire got closer to them, it was almost walking towards them, and in some way it seemed as if it was alive.

All at once, a flame came out of the ball, like a burning hand, and grabbed the girl away from his leg. He caught her by the hand and she looked back at him when her expression changed and instead of the scared, vulnerable and innocent look, the girl's face now wore the expression of a psychopath. Her eyes ruthless and ironic, her smile sarcastic and cold and her look emotionless, penetrating and apathetic. He looked at her and she just kept staring at him. "It's your fault," she said "Yours" her voice turned manlier, but just a bit "And yours only." He could swear that for a moment he saw Moriarty's maniac face. It caught him by surprise and so, shaken and alarmed, he released the girl who flew right into the flames, screaming.

Sherlock was standing there for a few minutes, staring into the violent flames, before the same burning hand that has just grabbed the girl away from him to her death, appeared again and started coming towards him.  
He tried to run but couldn't. His feet wouldn't move as if they were nailed into the floor.

'Move'

He tried ordering them in his mind. But it was useless.

'Come on' he thought 'MOVE'

But his legs remained motionless. He looked up again, the hand was getting closer. "MOVE" he was now screaming at his feet and they didn't obey. He tried detaching his right foot from the ground by pulling it with both of his hands but it was of no use and also too late. He nearly lifted his head before the burning hand caught his legs and tore his feet from the ground. He felt the fire turn his clothes and skin apart, it felt as if millions of miniature knives were rend his skin, slowly, cell by cell. It was hard to breathe as the air around him became hotter. And he could no longer handle the ongoing pain when his eyes closed. It was black but he still couldn't breathe. Just the darkness.  
"You will see that it's great fun." all of a sudden the silent was replaced by a voice "You will enjoy it," he tried searching for the voice's source but could not find it. "you will be waiting, eagerly, for your next job and you will be thankful when I give it to you."  
the shrill voice of James Moriarty echoed in his head. He gathered the small amount of air that was left in his lungs and called towards the voice "THAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN". But he knew that there was something in his words. He did enjoy the fire. "We both know it's not quite true," the voice replied calmly. The air in Sherlock's lungs was almost completely gone by now and therefore he started coughing. He tried calling for help but all that came out was nothing. When he tried breathing but nothing came in and every time he opened his mouth it dried even more. "Hel-" he managed to get it out, his voice high and every letter scratching his mouth. He tried screaming again and,

AIR

Cold as ice, thick as blood but still, air. He was in his stuffy, little cell again. Feeling his hands pressed against the wooden bed, he deduced he was sitting. Carefully he swung his hands off the bed and put them on the floor to its right. As he did, he noticed a weird sensation in his hands, he was shivering. He tried look at them but couldn't see a thing. he tried to make them stop and pressed them against the wood again but they kept doing that. He tried pressing them harder. It hurt.

He closed his eyes and felt his whole body shaking, uncontrollably. The fact that he couldn't control his body frightened him. He hated not having things under control but not having control over himself, which was probably the only thing he could have under control these days. It drove him mad!

He didn't even care he couldn't see, he just wanted his body to stop shaking. Without a warning he got up of the bed and started running, fast ahead. He had no idea why he did it. But the room was small so before he could pull himself together and stop his head hit the wall.

He stumbled backwards. Gray spots appeared and disappeared in the blackness of the room and again, he could feel his heartbeats in his forehead. He hated that feeling. He kept stumbling around, slowly losing all sense of direction. All he wanted was to find something too lean against.

BANG

His right leg hit the corner of the little, iron desk. The impact was so strong that instinctively he took his hand off his forehead and pressed it against his leg.  
He kept stumbling around the room for a while, feeling as vulnerable as a fish outside the water. Not just as vulnerable as the fish, he didn't want to admit it, but he was also scared. After a while he found the wooden surface and with a sigh of relief he set on it, leaning with his back against the wall.

The tears tried to make their way out but he kept resisting. He closed his eyes, trying to calm down but his heart was beating fast while he kept wiping his sweaty palms on his coat. "What's the point of holding them back?" he thought to himself. He was no longer the strong, sarcastic and genius detective. In fact, he no longer knew who he was. The only thing he knew was that there was no use pretending to be someone he no longer was. And so he let go.

One tear slid down his cheek and it was followed by many others. He didn't move, just stayed still and silent while the tears kept wetting his face but he didn't wipe them. He just let them be. Weak. that's what he was. Moriarty was too smart for him, he had absolutely no chance to win this. When the tears dried on his face it felt as if they became solid, or left some sort of a mark on his face. Each time a tear had dried it left some sort of burning sensation like the one you get when you take a sticker off your skin. "So weak" he whispered to himself, "Weak and useless." with those thoughts he fell asleep again. But this time he had no dreams at all.


	13. Chapter 13

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It hadn't been long before the darkness was broken by the blur light of the small lamp. Even though it was still quite dark in there. This light was just enough to wake the brunette who was sitting on the bed, one of his hands resting on his lap while the other one was carelessly lying on the bed. Though he was awake, his eyes were still closed. His eyelids were simply too heavy, he was absolutely exhausted. All of a sudden the door opened and hit the wall with a loud bang. The alarming noise made him jump and open his eyes just in time to see the thin, neat and threatening figure of Jim Moriarty walking in.

"Rise and shine" he announced and nodded to the guards to close the door behind him. Sherlock remained motionless. Moriarty stood in front of Sherlock, holding his hands together behind his back and scanning him with his eyes. It was then when Sherlock remembered the bruise he probably had on his forehead after his "meeting" with the wall the previous night. "Rough night?" Moriarty asked, though he was not expecting for an answer. Sherlock didn't reply. He kept his eyes fixed on the other man's eyes in a surprisingly sharp and focused look even though he was actually quite dizzy.

Moriarty smiled at him, crazy and pleased. "Your sentimental side is repealing," he said "But we will get rid of it soon." he turned to the little table in order to turn the computer on and as he did Sherlock quickly glanced towards the place where his leg hit the table. No blood, that was a good thing. Even if it's a bad bruise, Moriarty won't know about it. Then, carefully, he ran his hand over the bruise on his forehead. It was swollen and had a little open, slightly bleeding wound at the top of it. When he touched it a sharp pain and a slight shiver float quickly through his veins.

He stared at Moriarty's back for a while, he began to think that maybe the computer had a problem when he heard the man say: "That's one nasty bruise you've got there," Moriarty turned around to face him and was now leaning against the table with his arms crossed "What were you trying to do?! Break the wall with your head?!" Sherlock smiled coldly. He could tell that Moriarty knew exactly what had happened.

"Well," Moriarty detached himself from the table and took a step towards him. He stared firmly at Sherlock for few seconds before saying, "What are you waiting for? an invitation?". Sherlock, painfully got up from the bed. Trying as hard as he could to keep his expression cold and calm as he passed Moriarty and set next to the table.

Moriarty followed his every move with his eyes, like a lioness tracking a prey. He turned around to meet Moriarty's virulence eyes looking right through him, as if scanning his mind. They both looked at each other's eyes for a few minutes. Neither of them wanted to be the first one to look away.

All of a sudden the computer made a long beep and both men looked away at once. Sherlock turned his chair around to face it again, and Moriarty didn't move a muscle, his eyeballs just quickly changed their position and were fixed on the screen.  
The screen was still black but not for very long. A structure appeared there. Sherlock didn't recall seeing it before but it was oddly familiar. "That's a special one." Moriarty said, Sherlock could sense his excitement. "Do you know what this is?" he asked as if he knew he was not going to get an answer and for some reason that fact seemed to amuse him. When Sherlock kept silent and just stared at it, Moriarty continued. "I did a little digging you see... I thought that if you blew up a place to which you have some sort of 'sentimental' connection it'll help you get rid of that filthy attribute of yours..." Moriarty's tone was almost flat, besides the little hints of excitement Sherlock could spot every now and then. But then again, he was supposed to have a sentimental connection to that place but he didn't even recognized it.

It was a 5 stored building, a bit gray at the outside which meant it was quite old, ten years at least. The windows were opened but the camera's quality was quite bad so he couldn't see the people inside. Though he knew it was close to baker street because he could see some familiar landmarks that he kept seeing during his usual travels from and to the Scotland yard. But he didn't know this building! Moriarty must have got it wrong. But he's never wrong, so what the hell was that place?


	14. Chapter 14

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"Well-Have you figured out what it is yet?" Moriarty's excitement was now visible, the left corner of his lips twitched into a smirk, his arms were folded and his right hand's fingers were nervously taping on his left arm.  
Sherlock stared vacantly at the screen. He then closed his eyes, trying to go back to his familiar mind-palace. He hadn't gone there in a while and now after all he has been through Sherlock wasn't sure he was still capable of doing it. He straightened his back and pressed his palms against the table, his eyes still closed. Think, he said to himself, think think THINK! But his head was vacant. If Moriarty wasn't standing there he would probably slam his head on the table but now he didn't even move a muscle. He tried concentrating as hard as he could while remaining completely motionless. He was breathing deeply in order to calm down, a thing that was quite hard with Moriarty's cold stare fixed on him, making the hairs on his neck stand up straight.

* * *

"It has been quite a wonderful day so far" the little blond man sitting on the doctor's chair thought to himself while reading the news paper. Actually, he was more staring at it than reading it. The day wasn't going to stay a wonderful for very long, he knew that. And frankly, it wasn't that wonderful at all. But it was just his way to try and convince himself otherwise, to cheer himself up a little. It didn't work of course, never worked, but it was worth the try.

The last year and a half were hard on doctor Watson. Until six months ago he had no job. It was Mrs. Hudson's idea and honestly, if she didn't make him start working again he would have never done it. He wasn't going to tell her that but at the very moment his legs stepped outside on the pavement he felt better. Since then the work had distracted him. And he was thankful for that but today of all days people decided to be healthy! Of course it was a good thing but then again couldn't they just wait till tomorrow to do that. Today he needed to be distracted.

This day wasn't a normal day. It was different, harder. It was his birthday. It wasn't the first time Sherlock's birthday had arrived since the accident but it was harder this time. Because he was aware of it. Last time he spent the whole day sitting in his chair next to the fireplace, blankly staring at the empty brown armchair opposite him. It was lit by the blur light that manage to enter through the white-ish curtains. Sherlock wasn't a fan of colours, he insisted to have the white curtains saying that white helps him to think and clears his head. Knowing Sherlock, John decided he was not going to argue. He used to smile a little every time he saw Sherlock playing his violin and staring at those white curtains he was so determined to get. Now it was just another painful memory. He had been sitting there for a very long time, scanning the chair with his eyes. Trying to get any piece of information he could dig out about this impossible, mysterious person he was not sure he knew.

The leather armchair was probably Sherlock's favorite item, besides his violin of course. He used to stuff little pieces of paper at its sides, knowing John would never peak. But it didn't matter to John anymore, he wanted to know everything and above all, why the hell did Sherlock say what he said and done what he did. But for some reason he was too exhausted to stand up. He had a very good, long night sleep unlike the usual sleepless nights, full of nightmares and pain. All he could do was stare, he just searched for anything he could possibly find just by looking from a distance but there was nothing. Maybe if he got up and looked he would have found something but he just couldn't move. Some would say he was still in shock and it was true. He could still see the little dent in the place Sherlock used to sit and the violin that was leaning against it but nothing else. As if before going and jumping off that bloody roof Sherlock made sure to hide everything that could possibly help John to understand him.

Even though it seemed that way, last year he wasn't aware that that day was Sherlock's birthday. He just woke up to another day without his best friend and did just what he'd done for four months, staring blankly at Sherlock's stuff, thinking to himself, trying to organize his thoughts and really just trying to make sense out of this terribly confusing, illogical and difficult situation. Before he started working again he didn't bother finding out what day it was or what was the time. The days just passed by, each day was exactly like the previous one, empty and meaningless. When he got his old job back his life started to get meaning again. He felt as if he was finally doing something, as if it wasn't all in vane but then he'd go back home and the familiar sadness and loneliness would force their way into his heart and fill his lungs and throat like fog. Mrs. Hudson was the only person to see how damaged John really was. She was the only one John couldn't lie to, even if he tried she always knew. Maybe she felt the same, he could not tell. But he knew that she always did her best to help without letting anyone else know how Sherlock's death had really affected him.

Sarah knew he wasn't alright too. She never asked what was wrong or what had really happened. Even if she did, John wouldn't have told her and she knew that. He really appreciated the fact that she was there for him, no questions asked.

That's why he was going to her place today, he needed some comforting. She saw he was quite distracted at work and offered him to come to her place. He hadn't given her his answer yet. But the more he thought about it, the more he knew he needed it.


End file.
